She is transcendental mist,
the glow between the veils,
bright spirals of madness,
strung together heartbeats
in my beloved darkness.
© Angela Bigler 2020
I meet her on a street corner in Brooklyn.
Turquoise hair, smoky shadowed eyelids,
Dark smudge lipstick cigarette.
She exhales a dragon.
She says she’s dying anyway,
and living, and dying again.
It never ends, like a labyrinth dream
like a myth.
I notice the angry scars on her wrists.
“Did it hurt?” I ask, pointing.
She shrugs and flicks an ash. “Doesn’t everything?”
“What was it like on the other side?”
“Same thing—light and dark.”
Young Nyx ©Angela Bigler 2020
Whoever said you’d stay the same is wrong.
Blood, water, flame.
Things change, like the elements—like me.
They weren’t yet cocooned, transformed, unfurled
in the fiery quest for their truth.
Now you become phoenix—
Healed and protected,
Forged into me as I am into you.
© Angela Bigler 2020
I am the poem goddess and
I dance on feathered visions,
fly above my little self
and send down birdsong wisdom.
“One day you’ll be a goddess
full of dancing, feathered visions,
you will be a poem song,
a strong and brilliant woman.”
When her hazel eyes get wide
I know that she has listened.
My songs live inside her heart,
she feels the goddess rhythm.
©Angela Bigler 2018
Her songs are earth deep mantras calling names of constellations into being.
Her light soaked in, released the magic pine and herbs.
All those folded flowers lifted up their sacred prayers – water, light, dirt, love.
Her gifts – who could forget them?
Did you see her gentle curves?
The way her spine supports her children?
It’s impossible to live without her heaven/earth transcendence.
Aren’t we all turning, turning with the planet that she raised?
Had I been adequately prepared for your visit,
I would have…
Plucked the weeds from my garden
And replaced them with budding beauties,
Invited you to sit on a soft carpet of moss,
Shaded by growing greenery,
Planned a picnic of your favorite delicacies from distant lands.
I could not arrange an appropriate setting,
Yet you made yourself at home among weeds and unpainted boards.
You refused refreshment and placed my needs ahead of your own.
Like our Lord, you came to serve.
Long after sunglow, I’ll savor your sensitivity.
~Nancy J. Ressler
Feathers which have fallen at my feet
Just another way to talk to myself in public...
A blog that will explore various topics designed to educate, entertain, engage, encourage, and empower both English-speaking and Spanish-speaking readers via writing and audio-video expression.The primary vehicle of self- expression will be Poetry and Essays but other forms of writing, including fiction, will make an appearance from time to time.
Only the Sense of the Sacred can Save us
Nurturing the Curious & Creative Mind
Literary News, Reviews, and Events in Central PA
EDGAR NOMINATED CRIME WRITER
Nail Your Novel - Writing, publishing and self-publishing advice from a bestselling ghostwriter and book doctor
thoughts on life, love & a bunch of other deep shit
Sexuality in Young Adult Film and Literature
Complex PTSD: The Art & Work of Healing
Quarterly Literature, Speculative and Otherwise
Night Thoughts of a Literary Agent
Science Fiction and Fantasy Author
My healing journey.
A wise man says what he has thought about; A fool thinks about what he has said.
Writing by Alan Annand